Valentine's Day Massacred
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: How many things can go wrong for John Munch on Valentine's Day? You'll be surprised. His entire day in all its Murphy's Law glory, start to finish. You'll laugh, you'll groan, you'll wonder what could go wrong next! It all works out in the end! SVU AU


"Valentine's Day Massacred"

by Cardinal Robbins

Rated due to some strong profanity and implied sex. John Munch and his colleagues aren't mine. (If they were, we'd see a lot more of Munch on "SVU".) Sarah Zelman is mine, thankfully, unless Wolf Films buys her. This is pure Valentine's Day fluffapalooza, a response to the 'weekend after Valentine's Day' challenge at Enjoy reading what Murphy's Law can do!

John Munch dropped a teabag into his NYPD mug and poured in hot water. Elliot Stabler chose that moment to raid the coffee pot for more liquid caffeine.

"John," he began, careful to keep his voice low, "what have you got on for Valentine's Day?" Stabler was glad his partner, Olivia Benson, had left the room and gone down to the property clerk's office. She wouldn't be back for at least half an hour.

"Gee, Elliot, this is so sudden," Munch quipped, "but you're really not my type." He shot a look at his squad-mate and cracked a wry grin.

Stabler laughed and shook his head, taking a sip of coffee. "Funny. C'mon, John, you know what I mean. What are you doing that day? It's almost too late for flowers and all the nice restaurants have been booked for months." He knew. He'd been on the phone from the time he'd come into the bullpen, and the best he could do was something romantically floral, coupled with something shiny. He and Liv would be stuck eating artichoke-spinach dip at the local cop bar, rather than sharing osso bucco at an intimate, dimly-lit ristorante where Cragen would never see them.

"Why are you suddenly worried about my love life?" Munch sat down at his desk, leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the edge, somehow always avoiding disrupting his carefully-stacked case files. "Zelman's not into the whole 'hearts and flowers' charade, Elliot. I'm blissfully spared the agony and expense of over-priced half-wilted roses, stale candy that's sat on the shelves since last year, and sickeningly cute stuffed animals she'd rather donate to Toys for Tots." He tried in vain not to give in to the self-satisfaction he felt, but it was hard for him not to gloat over having finally found a down-to-earth woman after all of his high-maintenance past lovers.

"I suppose you also don't have to shell out for champagne or diamonds?" Elliot had hocked his soon-to-be-divorced soul to Zales, after seeing the perfect solitaire necklace for Olivia. Forty-five dollars a month, seemingly for the rest of his natural life, but it would be worth it when she opened the black velvet box. Then she would know, and somehow it would bring their relationship – and partnership – back to the way it was before. Before everything had gone so terribly wrong.

"We might have a little champagne, since we have an extra bottle left over from New Year's Eve," he admitted. "Nothing shiny this year, however. She didn't feel the need, since Hanukkah wasn't that long ago." John knew about the necklace, locked in the box Stabler would normally keep his duty carry in when he wasn't working. Munch had mentioned it one afternoon, as Elliot mused over what to get his partner. He'd thought then about Sarah; how she appreciated quality baubles, but never craved nor asked for them.

"Munch, if you don't do something – even a card – she'll be pissed. Take my word for it," Stabler insisted. "Every woman wants something to remind them they matter."

"Valentine's Day is purely a Hallmark holiday," John retorted, "which means nothing. It's also on a Wednesday this year, and that's about as unromantic as it can get." He lifted his long legs and sat up, at last ready to face the workday head-on. "Wednesday. I guess this year it'll be known as 'hump-day' for more than one reason." He looked at Stabler over the top of his lenses and turned his attention to his most current case.

"Yeah, well, it's always kind of hard to get some in the middle of the week," Elliot admitted, as he frowned.

"Are you sure? I haven't noticed," Munch replied, further yanking Stabler's chain.

"As I was about to say," Elliot added pithily, "there's always the weekend after." He opened his center desk drawer, managed to sneak a quick peek at Zales catalog-mailer and huffed softly. "My advice to you is, you'd better come up with something – or sparks are gonna fly. You can kid yourself into thinking it won't matter to Sarah, but cop or not, she's still a woman. Every last one of them is hard-wired for diamonds and pearls."

No one saw the slight smile that played at the corners of John's mouth.

The following week, Valentine's Day dawned earlier than anyone expected, bringing with it a light flurry of large snowflakes. John awoke, uncharacteristically alone, and blinked at the clock. Five thirty. It took a few seconds to penetrate his sleepy cranium, but with a sudden curse he hustled out of bed and straight into the shower. He was already thirty minutes behind. He'd overslept, due to an alarm that hadn't gone off for some reason.

His apartment was oddly cold, despite his having set the thermostat the night before. He exited the warmth of water into an atmosphere no higher than sixty degrees, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around him. "What the hell?" he asked no one in particular, as he checked heat vents. Nothing. Still clad from the waist down in terrycloth, he called the building super, sure his wasn't the first call he'd received at that hour.

"This is Rico," the man snapped. "Whoever this is, I know there's a problem – it's the thermocouple on the furnace," he continued, having recited the same explanation at least seven times in the last twenty minutes.

"Nice to know, Rico," Munch retorted, "but when will it be fixed?" He dreaded the thought of frozen pipes busting, while he was busting perps.

"Sorry, John," Gutierrez apologized. "I called the guys at four this mornin' when the wife got up and froze half to death. They'll be here any time. If I had the parts, I'd already have it fixed."

"But it will be fixed today?" he asked hopefully.

"Probably in the next couple a' hours," Rico replied. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I'm all over it, I promise ya."

"Good to know. I'll keep my thermostat set, in hopes I walk into a warm place tonight."

"Thanks, John," he said, relieved. "Got another call – gotta go."

Munch sighed, having resigned himself to shaving and getting dressed in the chill.

Forty-two minutes later, he pulled his black Altima to the curb in front of Sarah's apartment building. "We're running a little late this morning. Everything okay?" she asked, getting in and pulling the door closed.

"Aside from the penguins coming home to roost in my place, yes," he retorted, pulling away from the curb. A taxi driver shot in front of him and he leaned on the horn with more malice than Zelman had seen in some time. "Heat's out. Rico's got the guys coming to fix it."

"That's dismal," she admitted. "If there's a problem, come to my place tonight." She turned toward him and smiled, hoping to coax a good mood out of him despite it all.

"If it's not fixed, we may both be at my place with blow-dryers," he explained, "making sure the pipes don't freeze solid." He eased his way through another congested intersection, flipping on the windshield wipers. "We have court this morning, don't we?"

"Unfortunately," Sarah replied, watching the many ways in which people reacted to the softly-falling snow. "We've still got plenty of time, so we're good."

"I'll take your word for it," John groused, as they neared the Sixteenth.

"See you up there," Sarah said, as she watched John stop at a NY Times vending box.

Ten minutes later, he glanced at the headlines and cursed, throwing the paper in his wastebasket.

"What?" Fin asked, perplexed. "Some headline piss you off so bad you had to toss everything? I wanted to read about the Playboy bunny who died. She was some piece of work," he added.

"What I just bought was yesterday's paper," he replied hotly. "I want my fifty cents back from those incompetent goons who purportedly circulate the Tribune! I knew I should have grabbed the paper from home." He stood and picked up his NYPD mug, added a teabag and was about to pour in hot water.

"Wait!" Sarah exclaimed, stopping him. "I told you a week ago, that mug has a crack in it. You need to retire it or pitch it." She momentarily turned her attention to the computer, as a perp's image scrolled on to the screen. She wasn't overly concerned, since she was sure he wouldn't be so foolish as to use it yet again.

"Little you know, I used some epoxy on it. It's as good as new," he insisted, pouring hot water atop the teabag nestled against the bottom. "See?" He arched his brows, sat down at his desk and signed in for a day of work. "It was only cracked along the bottom, probably not all the way through."

"Epoxy, huh? Okay… I guess it should work," she decided, getting up to pour herself a cup of coffee.

Munch put his mug down in its customary spot, then leaned back in his chair to prop his feet on his desk. He heard a high-pitched 'ping' as the mug shattered, hot liquid fortunately missing most but not all of his case files. "Shit!"

Zelman made a dash into the supply cabinet beneath the coffee machine, fishing out the paper towels. "John – your files!"

"I know!" He was out of his chair in an instant, rescuing paper from liquid almost as fast as it could spread.

Sarah started pulling off towels while he grabbed paperwork and stacked it on the opposite side of his desk. "You'd think it was a fifty-five gallon drum," she groused, wiping up as much of the tea as she could. "I need your trash can – "

"You two need some help over there?" Fin asked, finally understanding why Munch had bought epoxy and sealer the other day.

"We're fine," John insisted, the worst of it mopped up at last. There were still shards of ceramic to deal with, however. "Scoot it off the side of the desk with the paper towels," he instructed Zelman, pushing the trash can over to her. "I'm almost done, then I can – "

"Your shoes got the worst of it," she realized. "Might want to do something about that before we leave for court." She didn't have the heart to tell him, there were speckles of tea on his slacks, too. So much for black hiding a multitude of sins.

"If that had blown up on my suit, somebody would be getting a beat-down right about now," Tutuola observed aloud, shaking his head. He watched as Cragen came out of his office, coffee mug in hand. "I wouldn't go near 'em, Cap. They're both bad news this morning. That kind of luck might be contagious."

"I'll clean up before we go," John said. "There's a cloth in my locker, so I can – "

"Damn it!" Sarah had been carefully easing pieces into the trash, when one caught her and slipped through skin as easily as a scalpel. She choked back another expletive, as the cut began to bleed. "I need another paper towel…"

"What did I tell you?" John asked, momentarily irritated. "Here… Let me see." He pressed a paper towel against her palm, as she winced. "I'll take care of the rest of this mess, while you go wash that out."

"It'll be okay. Let go and just worry about drying everything off," she insisted, as Munch reluctantly went back to righting things on his desk. "Crap. Of all the days for this to happen," she groused, struggling not to say anything too profane in front of her squad-mates.

Undaunted, Cragen ventured over and poured himself some coffee. "Don't tell me, John, your mug was set for self-destruct?" He looked to Zelman, who was trying hard to hold her temper in check. She pulled the paper towel away and cursed, thoroughly irritated. "Let me see if Melinda is in," Don offered.

"I have Band-Aids in my desk," she said. "If I get blood on this outfit, I'll be pissed." A court appearance meant her silver-gray suit, with a teal shirt. Stylish, yet functional, but unfortunately 'dry clean only.'

"My money says that'll take two, maybe three, stitches," Cragen warned. He motioned to Fin, who was already coming back from Don's office with the First Aid kit.

"No time to waste on stitches, not before court," Sarah quipped. "Butterfly closures will have to do." She mumbled her gratitude to Tutuola, while she pulled the edges together. He secured the cut with three closures and she covered them with a couple Band-Aids. "Thanks, Fin. I appreciate the help."

"No problem," he quipped. "At least you didn't bleed on me." His gaze met hers and he coaxed a sarcastic grin out of her. "You two are havin' some kind of day."

"Gee, ya think?" John almost snapped, wishing he hadn't tried to play handyman with his favorite mug. Now Zelman would be pissed with him for the rest of the day, and rightfully so, he knew.

"I'll get janitorial to take care of the rest," Cragen asserted. "Don't you both have court in about twenty-five minutes?"

"We do and we can still make it in time if we leave now," John decided, taking the keys to an unmarked unit from his center desk drawer. "I'm sorry you got the worst of it, Sarah. You okay?" He watched as she tried to remove a drop of blood from her sleeve with a bit of spit on a tissue, the universal cleaner.

"Peachy. Don't worry about it, John. Let's go," she said. She grabbed her briefcase, moving fast to keep up with John's long strides to the elevator.

John shoved the key into the Crown Vic's ignition and turned it. It kicked over immediately, then just as quickly stalled. "Neither of us need this today," he huffed, trying again to start the car. Nothing. "Now we will be late."

"The judge hates you, John," Sarah said. "We can't be late or Casey's going to kill us. If she doesn't, at the least we'll both be charged with contempt."

"The judge does not hate me," Munch asserted. "She's very understanding. We'll explain we had – "

"It's not a 'she,' it's 'he' – the judge who got a grand from you once before, on a contempt charge," Zelman explained.

"Him?" John gestured widely and finally hit the steering wheel, enraged. "When was that little salvo dropped?" He muttered a curse and glared through the windshield.

"Yes, him. Our case was reassigned. Casey told us that two days ago." She unlatched her seatbelt and he followed suit.

"Could this day get any bleaker? C'mon, let's grab a ride with a uni," he decided. "Who's going to sit in back and play the perp?" They headed toward the garage elevator, looking for any familiar face.

"I'll sit in back as long as you don't cuff me," Sarah joked, falling back on gallows humor. "I'd ride on the roof if I thought it'd get us to court on time."

Munch spotted a uniformed officer he recognized, called out and waved. Somehow, they'd make it to court but all bets were off on whether it would be in time.

Stopped at the courthouse metal detectors, Munch blew out a breath as they headed for the 'employees only' line. Both of them knew, as cops, they could badge the guards on duty, show their ordnance and hurry through after merely having a detection device waved over them.

"Isn't this our lucky day?" John asked rhetorically, nudging his partner. "New guy. The line is crawling, too." He glanced down at Zelman's left wrist and gave her a pleading look. "Please tell me you have the magic pass from the orthopedic surgeon," he whispered urgently. "Because the new guy probably won't let you through if you don't."

Her right hand brushed her wrist by habit, a thin scar on the underside evidence of metallic hardware – her post-surgical parting gift from having caught a bullet, during a VICAP mission with Munch. "It's in my purse, not my briefcase," she whispered apologetically. "You go first, meet up with Casey; tell her I'll quietly contest a contempt charge if it comes down to it. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Sarah, of all the days to leave that behind, why did you choose today?" He watched the line snake forward, positioning himself in front of her, wishing they weren't both 'having a day' at the same time.

"John, if you start with me now – after the little incident with your mug – you haven't begun to experience a lousy day. Got it?" she almost hissed, moving forward as more people made it through the queue.

"Fine," he snapped quietly. "Be ready to pony up the bucks, then. Don't cry to me when 'The Hanging Judge' sets his sights on you, either. When you appear with me, you're guilty by association. He'll hate you, too." He sighed, casting a quick glance at the elaborate art deco clock on the wall in front of them. "Five minutes and counting."

Before Sarah could throw a suitable remark his way, he was flashing his badge and walking through. He removed his work carry from its holster and passed it over for inspection. The new guy traced him with the detection wand, handed back his gun and waved him past.

Zelman stepped up next, smiled at the guard and showed her badge. She gave him her Glock and tried to keep her expression neutral, a challenge considering her exchanges with Munch. She spread her arms and legs as the guard began the detection process, a tell-tale beeping almost causing her to curse. "My wrist has titanium hardware," she explained, mentally keeping her fingers crossed.

"I know what that's like… My dad had a knee replacement," the man offered. "He has such a hassle going through lines at the airport. It's a pain in the butt." He ran the device over her left arm and wrist once more. "No problem. Here's your sidearm. Have a good one."

She holstered her carry, thanked him and took off at a trot for the elevators, shocked to see Munch in the lobby waiting as well. "Why are you still here?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "With neither of us up there, we're screwed."

"Indicative of this crap-storm of a day, two of six elevators are out of service," he explained. "If it wasn't on the fifth floor, we'd take the stairs at this point." Before he could extemporize a rant about over-dependence on modern mechanization, elevator doors opened and they both stepped inside.

Moments later, they were face-to-face with Casey Novak.

"John, didn't you get my voicemail?" she asked, surprised to see him standing there with Zelman. "I called your cell-phone almost thirty minutes ago, to tell you we've had a postponement." She looked from one detective to the other, as their faces pinked. "Tell me you didn't forget your cell-phone."

"I'd set it for 'thrill,' because otherwise it would be too easy to forget it was on," he explained, feeling like a rookie detective. "When Sarah told me which judge we'd have, I didn't want to give him any excuse to despise me more than he already does."

"Why a continuance, Casey?" Zelman asked, wondering if the judge opted for a ski vacation at the last moment. "What happened? Somebody slip some arsenic into his eggs?"

She laughed softly, hoping none of his associates overheard. "You two haven't looked out the window lately, have you?" Novak asked, walking toward one of the large windows at the end of the hall. "He had a minor fender-bender on his way in, slid into a second car and was waiting for a uniform to take the report. He called me and asked for a seven-day delay," she explained, "which I had no choice but agree to, so we'd stay on his good side."

"'Good side'? You're taking a leap in presuming he has one," John taunted, trying not to take his irritation out on her. Now it would be another seven days before they could close the Sauter kidnapping and assault case. An eternity, since Cragen expected the case to be put to bed no later than the end of the day.

"Obviously you were in no mood to play nice with the other kids, so it's just as well," Casey retorted, her tone forbidding comment. "I have another case that was moved up. I've been waiting for Elliot and Olivia, but we were given pretty short notice on this one." She checked her watch, wondering if she should have asked for a continuance for that case as well.

"If you don't need us, we're going back to the house," Munch decided, his mood further soured by their judicial goose-chase. "Might as well go back and face our minimum daily requirement of ass-chewing," he groused. "At least the judge is enjoying this day every bit as much as I am," he quipped, walking off toward the elevators.

Casey shot Zelman a sympathetic look. "What's up with your partner? How long has he been in his lovely mood?" She glanced over her shoulder, then shook her head.

"It's been a lousy day all around. It started when the heat went out in his building very early this morning," Sarah admitted. "It's plunged downhill from there." She shrugged, wondering what else the day had in store for them. "I'd better catch up with him… See you later, Casey."

"Good luck," Novak called out, glad she wasn't the one on the receiving end of his ire. "I'll call Cragen and let him know this wasn't your fault, if that would help," she offered.

"That would be a godsend. Thanks." By the time Zelman caught up with Munch, he was in the lobby trying to find an available uniform to provide them a quick return to the 16th Precinct.

It hadn't taken them long to prevail upon a member of the thin blue line to give them a lift back. Munch had spent most of the time gazing out of the RMP car's window, noticing how snow flurries had begun to stick to sidewalks and streets.

As he and Zelman thanked the patrolman who'd detoured for their benefit, Munch saw a huge bouquet of wine red roses being carried up the stairs. Stabler, he thought. Showing off for his partner.

Sure enough, as they stepped into the elevator both looked over at the hapless deliveryman, almost obscured by flora. "Do either of you know an 'Olivia Benson'?" he asked, trying to lower the bouquet without damaging it.

"Follow us," Munch offered, "and we'll lead you to her desk." He tipped his head back ever so slightly, realizing there was no card included with the display. As if people wouldn't know. As if Cap wouldn't cringe at such an outward display of Elliot's affection for Olivia, he thought bitterly.

The elevator doors opened and they walked into the bullpen, dogged by Cupid's courier and his dozen long-stemmed beauties. "Could one of you sign for these?" he asked hopefully, putting down the vase where he could find adequate space on her desk. "Not sure how much longer we'll be able to deliver today. Big storm's on its way in."

John nodded, taking off his coat and shaking the dusting of snow from it. "Here, I'll take care of that for you," he said, signing the delivery confirmation. "Before you go," he added, pulling out his wallet, "here's a little something for your efforts." He flipped the man a twenty-dollar bill and smiled, knowing he'd extract it from Stabler a bit later. Shortly after the fellow left, Munch sneezed.

"Bless you," Zelman said, passing him a tissue.

"Thank you," he replied, sneezing again.

"Zol Gott Zayin Mit Dir," she said, hoping a stronger blessing would quell whatever ailed him. "You okay?" She looked at him, curious when she saw he'd taken his glasses off. His eyes were red and watery, his face pinking. "Oh, no…"

"It's an allergic reaction to the glorified ragweed they used in that bouquet," he replied, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose. "Queen Anne's Lace. They used it instead of Baby's Breath and it's nothing but a picturesque weed, probably sown by Satan in the Garden of Eden," he asserted, fishing in his desk drawer for a bottle of Benadryl.

"Maybe I should put those in Cragen's office, at least until Olivia gets back?"

"No. This will take care of it," he assured her, quaffing a couple antihistamines. "I hate taking pills, but otherwise I'll be sneezing the rest of the day and it's not even spring yet."

Sarah nodded, getting up to refill her coffee. She found a clean mug and dropped a teabag in, adding hot water. "Happy Valentine's Dreck," she snarked, placing the mug on John's desk. "Elliot's probably refinanced his car by now, to buy Liv something she can't wear at work," she said, keeping her voice low. "I'm glad you didn't feel the need to do that."

"I wish he could hear you," John replied. "The other day he acted like I was going to be banished for not buying you something ridiculously ostentatious." He picked up his mug of tea and hoisted it slightly, nodding to Sarah. "Happy Hallmark Holiday," he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone.

"You, too," she quipped. "Any idea where Fin went?"

"Probably over to Fiven Dime's for his mid-morning sugar rush," he said, secretly wishing Tutuola would bring back the day's early edition of the paper and a box of Drake's Funny Bones. "If he waits until tomorrow, all the candy will be half-priced."

"If there's any left," Cragen interjected on his way toward more coffee. "Fin's with TARU, looking over images on the laptop from Trinity Lutheran's pastor. He'll be back within the hour."

They both noticed Cap held a piece of red licorice in his hand. He hit the red stuff when he was stressed, John recalled, awaiting the inevitable backside bruising over not closing out the Sauter case as everyone expected.

"Casey called and told me about the continuance," Don said. "Since the delay wasn't on our end, there's nothing we can do. But in the meantime, I need you two to go hatch a perp." He dropped a copy of an arrest warrant on Munch's desk, before he continued. "This morning the judge signed off on our bringing in Samuel Ritenour. We know him best as the wife-beater who put Janet Ritenour in ICU over at Mercy," Don's careworn expression was determined. "I don't care how long it takes, I just want him in here."

"Word on the street has him as a second-shift trash truck jockey, so our chances are better than average," John said, getting up to put on his coat.

"Unless he's smart enough to know we're looking for him," Sarah said, hoping she was wrong. "Are they watching for him at Mercy General?" She was checking her ordnance before pulling on her parka.

"We've got a uniform at the door, in case he's stupid enough to walk in," Cragen replied. "I'm not saying he has to be sweated in the box right away, but I do want him off the street and in a holding cell by tonight – even if you have to threaten him with a tactical Tupperware party. We clear on that?"

"Very. We're on it, Cap." Munch knew that was Don's way of saying they could bring Ritenour in with force, if necessary; 'tactical Tupperware' his favorite euphemism for their Glocks. It also gave them tacit permission to bring uniforms to the party, as needed to haul the repeated abuser in without incident.

"He so much as _hints_ at resisting arrest and I'm tuning him up like a '59 Plymouth," Munch decided, taking a sip of coffee. They could see their breath in the cold air inside the white Chevy Suburban, both silently glad for the shred of extra warmth Kevlar vests provided.

"You're not the only one," Sarah reminded him. "You know how I feel about wife-beaters. He'll be lucky if I don't turn him from a rooster to a hen, with one shot." She took a long pull from her Styrofoam cup and glanced around their immediate surroundings. "If we get probable cause, we can search."

"Shouldn't take much to establish cause," John said, considering where Ritenour's guns might be found. "Can you believe they've been married exactly twenty-two years today?" he asked. "Twenty-two years. An eternity in some respects." He glanced down the block, worried school was in session. The last thing they needed was having parents and children scattered about the neighborhood, while a bust was in progress.

"She stayed with him a lot longer than she should have," Sarah decided. "It's pretty damned sad." Zelman followed his gaze, keeping a mental tally of what time it was, as well as the elementary school's usual schedule. "Hopefully, all these abusers will share a special place in Hell."

"One can only hope," John agreed. "Now she's at Mercy, while we're about to give him a one-way trip to Rikers." He moved his left arm, reaching over with his right hand to double-check his nine-mill carry. "I realize there's a lot about love no one person could possibly understand, but I'll never comprehend why some men feel the need to physically harm their women in the twisted logic of 'loving' them." His mind drifted to some of the more serious arguments he'd had with Zelman, but he'd never once entertained the desire to hit her. He'd clocked her seriously once, purely by accident, and still felt the sting of guilt.

"You know why, John. It's not something people like to think about," she replied. "Rage issues. Control issues. Assault, rape, kidnapping…they're all about getting control and keeping it as long as possible." She rubbed her hands together briefly before deciding gloves were the order of the day. She almost envied John his earmuffs. "Real love doesn't even enter into it for those people. They'll never understand what genuine love is all about."

"It's indicative of a larger problem," he said, watching the house for any signs of life. "Mankind seems to be hardwired for the strong to always dominate the weak, no matter the situation, rather than expending efforts to explore the meaning of love. You'd think after all this time, we'd at least be able to get along."

"If that were the case, we'd be out of business," Sarah reasoned.

"If that were the case, I wouldn't mind," he retorted.

"Same here," she agreed. "Unfortunately, world peace isn't on the docket for our lifetime."

"I'd settle for peace," John decided, "even if it meant giving up love." He took another sip of coffee and heard his stomach growl. The box of Drake's Sunny Doodles called to him and he answered, reaching down to snag one of the golden cupcakes.

"You'd never give up love. I know you better than that," she said, laughing wryly. "Your DNA is encoded for love and romance, as much as it's encoded for police work. Nice try." She watched him extract the snack cake from its cellophane wrapper, biting into it without so much as dropping a crumb.

"Okay, I'm busted. Happy?" he asked, laughing softly between bites. "Speaking of love, Liv should have seen her roses by now." He arched his brows and Sarah giggled. "What?" He popped the last bite into his mouth and wiped his gloved hands with a tissue.

"Nothing much," she ventured, "just that she and Elliot need to figure out their relationship once and for all. She looked at John and smirked.

"So you say. Not everyone can be us," he shot back, a slight smile on his face.

"You're too funny," she admitted, trying not to laugh. "At least we _try_ not to be so fricken obvious." She realized snow had gathered on the windshield, obscuring their view. "Speaking of not being obvious, can you turn the key enough to trip the wipers?"

He watched while the wipers swept off the snow, hoping it wouldn't blow their cover.

"Elliot was smart enough not to sign the card with those roses," John reminded her. "He can't be busted for fraternizing without ample proof. That's why we keep a low profile in front of Cragen, remember?" Don didn't mind their relationship as long as it didn't interfere with his squad's closure ratio. He'd been turning a blind eye to Stabler and Benson, too, almost from the start. He did expect his detectives to be savvy enough to keep their relationships below IAB's radar, however, on all counts.

"I'm happy with a low profile," she admitted. "The last thing we want is our business out on the street." She took a sip of coffee and narrowed her gaze. "Car coming – it fits the description of Janet's silver Mazda."

He nudged her with his elbow. "Being driven by someone who looks a lot like 'Slamming Sammy' Ritenour." They watched carefully as the car pulled into the drive and a man got out.

John momentarily leaned his head to the left. " There he is. Going up the front steps right now. Call the cavalry."

"That's definitely Sam," Zelman agreed. "I'll get us some backup and we'll storm the door." She got on the handheld and called it in, requesting patrol cars to block the intersections with additional units on the street for added muscle, everyone instructed to roll in with no lights or sirens. "You checked for gun permits, right?"

"Of course. He has a registered forty-caliber S&W, as well as one of their nine by nineteens," Munch explained. "He's recently purchased a forty-five, which he may be carrying. I'm not sure what kind of ordnance he has access to, but let's not take any chances." In his reluctance to leave anything about the bust to chance, they both wore Kevlar vests, despite his usual hesitance to do so.

"This guy a gun collector or is he arming himself for 'The End of Days'?" she asked, shaking her head. She reached up and tightened the Velcro straps on her vest; an action that had become habit throughout the years.

"He probably carries without a permit, because of his job. Unfortunately, being a garbage collector is not a compelling reason to pack heat, no matter what neighborhood he's working." He picked up his hat and put it on, watching the snow blowing across the street as RMP cars took their positions. "They're getting out. Let's go."

"Tactical Tupperware time," she agreed. "I've got your back." She knew he'd want to lead.

They got out and surreptitiously drew their Glocks, uniforms forming a group behind them as they walked quietly to the front door. "Once he's collared, start a plain-sight search, unless I tell you otherwise," Munch commanded. "Got it?" He saw everyone nod their heads as they followed the two detectives to the door.

Zelman rang the doorbell and called out, "FedEx – need your signature!"

"Leave it," came the muffled reply. "I'll get it later."

"Can't do that," she called back. "Certified check. You want it or not?"

As the door swung open, Munch pushed through and identified himself. Almost before Ritenour knew what was happening, John yelled, "Hands on your head!" He pushed Sammy face-first against the foyer wall, while Zelman brought his arms down and encircled his wrists in cuffs. "Am I going to find out you're packing, Sam?" Munch asked.

"I can carry anything I want around my home," Ritenour asserted. "You can't tell me that's not legal." He started to squirm and was rewarded with another hard shove against the wall. Neither of the detectives was in the mood to play.

"How right you are," John accorded, "which indicates you're armed and fairly dangerous." He patted down the perp and discovered a brand-new .45 at his waistband. "Let's bag this," he said, handing it off to a uniformed officer.

"Got a little something else here," Zelman added, retrieving a .38 Special from Sammy's ankle holster. "Add this to the collection." She kept Ritenour pressed tight against the wall as she whispered in his ear. "Certainly you didn't mean to leave the house with those? Maybe go for a little drive, to visit your wife on Valentine's Day?" She fought the urge to throw her elbow hard into his spine. "Where's that forty-cal of yours, tough guy?"

"You want it? Find it yourself!" he said, turning his head and trying to spit.

Munch shoved his gloved hand against Sam's face so hard, he knew he'd rung the perp's bell. "Samuel George Ritenour, you are charged with felony assault upon Janet Denise Ritenour, as well as being an asshole and trying to spit on one of New York's Finest. You have the right to remain silent…"

Zelman knew the Miranda by rote, thus turning her attention to the missing gun. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Thin Blue Line, we now have probable cause for a full search of the premises! First one to find the forty-caliber Smith and Wesson gets my respect, admiration and a Drake's cake," she declared, secretly knowing police officers searched better with the promise of a prize, even if it was something inconsequential. "Since Sammy won't tell us, and since he took it upon himself to have an unregistered thirty-eight concealed on his person, feel free to look wherever you have to," she called out. "Last chance to cooperate, Sam. In your case, we keep what we find, by the way. Little thing we lovingly refer to as 'evidence.'"

"Fuck you _and_ the horse you rode in on! Nobody's taking my guns, you stupid bitch!" he snapped, wishing he had the cuffs off and his .45 in his hands. He tried to wriggle free, but Zelman's elbow was shoved into the back of his neck, until John yanked the perp away from her.

"Is that any way to talk to a woman?" Munch asked, feigning surprise. He shoved Sam to the floor, face first, stationing a uniform to keep him in custody while the search continued. "You must have flunked etiquette, Sammy," John taunted, "or you'd know not to spew profanity in front of the ladies present."

Sam knew when he was whipped; there was no way he'd crack wise with a uniformed officer holding a Glock to his back. He relaxed and lay still, as the search reached a fever-pitch. He vowed silently to buy more ordnance, after he'd taken care of the situation with his wife.

Munch and Zelman were confident he'd never get the opportunity. His mail would soon be forwarded to Rikers.

Fifty-five minutes later, with Samuel Ritenour sequestered in the back of an RMP unit, his guns all located, bagged and about to be entered as evidence, Munch and Zelman left the uniforms to clear the scene. Until it was time to get Sammy in the box, their work was done.

"Are you hungry?" Munch asked his partner, finally settled back at his desk for an afternoon of paperwork.

"Ravenous. I'm always ready for food after a bust goes well," Zelman admitted.

"Let's get something for lunch. I'll make the call," he offered, looking in his center desk drawer to pull out the squad's list of favorite restaurants that delivered. "Your turn to decide. My turn to pay." Did he have his wallet with him? He momentarily stood to double-check, because the way his day was going, all bets were off.

Zelman saw him pat his back pocket and stifled a laugh. "Chinese? Maybe some chicken or duck," she suggested. "I'm easy to please. We're sharing, so you get to help decide." She was trying to figure out if it really was his turn to pay, or if he was being chivalrous. Again.

"Duck would be good. I think we had orange chicken last week."

"Sounds fine to me," she assured him. "I'll be back in a few. TARU successfully dumped Sam's cell-phone, which may give us a shot at proving he harassed his wife before he abused her." She got up and walked from the bullpen, leaving him to order their daily requirement of sodium and saturated fats.

He punched in the number of Wok Around the Block, wondering why it was taking them so long to answer. A recording solved the mystery; an accented voice explained they were closing early, had stopped taking additional orders, and were struggling against the weather to deliver orders already placed. John hung up the phone, deterred but not defeated.

His next attempt was Uno, a Chicago-style pizzeria that Sarah turned him on to as soon as they had opened a Manhattan location. Instead of pizza, which infrequently disagreed with them, he'd order some bow tie pasta with chicken and vegetables. Food from Uno's was always ample enough to share; he'd skip the garlic bread just this once, then hit up the pop machine for two cans of Cream Soda.

A short conversation later and he'd stuck out once again because they, too, were backlogged with orders they could no longer deliver. The weather had driven people indoors, including the delivery drivers who were now pushed into use as bus boys in Uno's main dining room. Munch knew not to try getting over there, lest he be one of many squeezed into the small foyer to wait forever for take-out.

Instead, he shrugged into his coat, put on his hat, earmuffs and gloves, then headed out the door. Deli food. Not quite the last resort but not exactly his first choice, either, since they'd had sandwiches yesterday. He walked the brisk and blowing two blocks with his head down, looking up as he opened the door to Norm's Nosh. As he kicked the wet snow from his shoes, he mentally cringed. The place was practically mobbed, it was so claustrophobic.

He counted the heads in front of him, ruefully discovering fifteen. Fifteen orders, each taking at least five or more minutes to prepare, package and ring up before each person would be out of his way. It was a bad investment in time, especially when he considered the smaller group of people milling around who were already waiting for their food.

John shook his head in dismay, gently shouldered through the people who'd crowded in behind him, and emerged into the falling snow. There was one option left. One last opportunity for lunch, even though he dreaded it. He walked back to the 16th Precinct a defeated man, unable to provide a decent repast for him and his partner.

He took the elevator to the lower level, where the air reeked of microwaved popcorn, lunches brought in from who knew where, and the pungent scent of scorched food. He looked mournfully into the windows of a vending machine, scrolling the turnstyles in vain to find something suitable.

A lonely egg salad sandwich rotated past a second time, its only company a hoagie filled with questionable cold-cuts, wilted lettuce and pale tomato slices. He dropped in some coins and pushed the button for the egg salad on white bread. It dropped with a dull thud, which he thought it would probably do in his stomach as well.

John had slightly better luck with the snack machine, selecting a bag of 'Cool Ranch' Doritos for himself and a bag of Sun Chips for Sarah. He hoped the soda machine upstairs wasn't empty; if it were, at least there would be coffee. It was better than nothing.

He emerged from the elevator, saw Zelman's hopeful look and shook his head. "I hate to be the harbinger of doom, but every place I called or went to was impossible. They were either stymied by the weather or filled beyond capacity." He held up the meager goods proffered by the vending machines. "We can split this, have some chips and complete our gourmet fare with a Drake's cake." Munch dropped everything on to his desk, pushing the Sun Chips toward Sarah. "I'm sorry, babe," he said quietly.

"Don't give it a second thought, John," she said, merely glad to have something, all things considered. She got up and coerced a couple beverages from the pop machine, giving him the last Cream Soda and settling for a Diet Coke. "Could be worse…" she ventured.

"Really? How?" Munch asked, placing half the sandwich on a napkin and scooting it toward her.

"Uh…well…. Give me enough time and I'll think of a way," she retorted, coaxing a reluctant smile from him.

"What you're telling me is, you've already made up your mind. As far as you're concerned, he's guilty," Munch said, wanting to make sure he understood. He put down the afternoon newspaper he'd swiped from Cragen's desk, to look at her. "You're sure about this, aren't you? There's nothing I can say to change your mind?" The question was purely rhetorical, because once her mind was made up, almost nothing could change her point of view.

She huffed softly. "Damn straight, I'm sure. Of course he's guilty," Zelman reiterated, "of two murders now, not just the one. Mark my words, there _will_ be a third and he _will_ get away with it. There's nothing anyone can do about it, either – because no one's willing to get involved." She brushed the crumbs from her blouse, wishing for more Diet Coke to chase down the last bite of egg salad sandwich.

"I'll go along with that, primarily because he had ample motive and opportunity," John agreed. "He also had the complicity of the local government, and the means by which to kill both his victims. It's the perfect conspiracy, you have to admit."

"It _was,"_ Zelman agreed, "until her mother got involved and began questioning his every move." Sarah got up to refill her coffee mug, adding a splash of half and half. "We may never know how that methadone got into her system."

"You can bet the M.E. didn't check between fingers, toes and under her tongue," he said. "The M.E. has to be on the take, too. Otherwise, the red flag would have been waved long before now." He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on his desk. "You think they'll exhume the remains eventually?"

"Tough call, that," Sarah said, thinking it over. "Methadone dissipates quickly, which means it'll be completely untraceable if an exhumation takes place in a few years."

"You two grab a case I didn't know about?" Cragen asked, coming back from the vending machines with a package of M&Ms. "'Methadone'? 'Motive and opportunity'? 'Exhumation'?" He sat on the corner of Elliot's desk and looked at them both. "I know you're not talking about Janet Ritenour, because she's out of ICU and her condition's been upgraded. Drugs don't enter into her case at all." He waved the bag of candy toward Sarah and she held out her hand, nodding her thanks.

"Anna Nicole Smith, also known as Vicki Arthur, also known as any number of people for whom her doctors were writing prescriptions," Munch explained. "We were idly speculating on how the alleged perp managed to get methadone into her son's system, and then hers. He's also written the will in such a way, the daughter won't get so much as a Bahamian coin." John got up and sat on the edge of his desk, looking at Don with arched brows, waiting for his opinion.

"The guy is guilty as sin, certainly complicit in both murders," Cragen accorded, "but they'll never figure out how. Guy like that takes advantage of the local constabulary, knows how to work the system, and gets away with multiple murder." He shook his head and sighed. "I feel sorry for the baby girl, but I'm just as glad it's not our case."

"So are we," John quipped, returning his attention to work.

"You two sure you don't want to go home?" Cragen asked, watching the flurries whip harder against the windows. "Fin said they're closing down the courthouse any moment now. I told him, Elliot and Olivia to take the rest of the day. You two could take off early, too, if you wanted." He poured exactly five brightly colored M&Ms into his hand and popped them into his mouth.

"Careful of those green ones," John warned, a smirk on his face.

"If anyone would know, John, it'd be you," Don shot back, getting the joke.

Munch looked at Zelman and they shrugged. "We'll hang around, Cap," John decided, as Sarah nodded her assent. "Otherwise you're stuck by yourself if something urgent comes in."

"I appreciate it," Don replied, offering more M&Ms to them both. "Wouldn't hurt to have you available, in case something comes in we can't push off until the weather's better." He took the remainder of his candy, headed to his office and closed the door. Outside, the snow gathered against the architectural detailing of the building's masonry walls. Inside, he wondered how long this spate of nasty weather would last.

Around three o'clock, John watched out the window as cars left the parking garage in a steady stream. People were escaping early, in their bid to get home or run errands before the streets became impassible. He realized the weather was exponentially worse, with ice crystals forming on the windows as the snow came down, seemingly in wave after wave of brilliant white flakes.

The bullpen was warm, the phones were considerably more quiet than expected, leaving the two detectives to accomplish more work than initially hoped in the next few hours.

By six-thirty, Munch's stomach was rumbling for the second time that day. "I'm going across the street," he announced, bundling into his coat and accoutrements to venture over to Fiven Dimes. They had to sell something the hungry detectives could snack on, while they worked toward end of watch.

Fifteen minutes later he returned, a sour look on his face. He shook the snow from his coat, hanging it up. A dramatic, frustrated sigh escaped as glared out the window.

"Any luck?" Sarah asked hopefully. "I don't see a brown paper bag, which tells me all I need to know. Sorry." She turned again to her computer, as John took off his hat, scarf and gloves. "Another casualty of the blizzard?"

"'Closed early, due to inclement weather,'" he said rancorously, a twinge in his gut that wouldn't be satisfied by another snack cake. "The phrase always makes it sound so quaint, when it they should say, 'closed up tight because a raging storm means no customers except starving cops,'" he groused, ready for a full-fledged rant on empty vending machines, overwhelmed restaurants, locked-tight convenience stores and nasty weather. "This is ridiculous."

"You did your best, John," Zelman said, hoping her tone of voice could soothe him. "Want a Snickers bar?" she asked, grinning. "It's time to break out the emergency rations." She opened her desk drawer, her hand poised above it awaiting his answer.

"Sure. It'll help stop the growling in my stomach, until we can find something else." Munch took the candy bar she offered, thanking her as he ripped the wrapper. Just as he was about to take a bite, they were plunged into darkness without so much as the computer screens for illumination. "What the hell is happening now?"

"Shit! If I have to input an entire session of reports, somebody's taking damage over it," Zelman asserted. She debated giving the computer a swift shot to the side, but decided against it.

"Maybe Cap can tell us what happened," Munch reasoned, as Cragen came out of his darkened office.

"According to One PP, this snowstorm brought down a section of the grid. They're going to switch us to backup power, but they want all non-emergency personnel to stay off the computers," he explained. He looked around the bullpen, the area deprived of light and activity. "John, if I were you, I'd leave my car here and grab an unmarked from the garage. See if you and Sarah can make it home, while you can."

"Cap, if we do that, you're stuck here in the dark, alone," Munch replied, unwilling to leave Don in a position of having to run the department completely on his own.

"Should be okay… Look, John, I'll call you first thing tomorrow if no one else can make it in. Since everyone else went home early, both of you should come in late."

"Are you absolutely sure you don't need us to stay?" John asked, concerned. "We can always take turns catching some sleep in the cribs." He knew Sarah would have no problems with being volunteered to pull a double shift, especially if it meant Cap wouldn't be working alone.

"With the city slowly shutting down, let's hope it'll be a quiet night for sex crimes," Cragen ventured. "I'm going to be here, in case the rest of the precinct needs me. I've got the roll-away in my office." He knew sometimes the bed in his office was considerably more comfortable than falling asleep on his couch, as the Discovery Channel droned in the background.

"Don," Sarah said quietly, "can we at least try to find you some dinner somewhere? You can't live on stale coffee and red licorice."

"I got out while you and John collared Ritenour," he assured her. "Grabbed a ride with a uni and we pulled through Mickey D's. I've got a few snacks tucked away in my desk, just in case." He looked at both of them, nodded toward their coats and said, "Pack it in, why don't you? I appreciate the thought, but you two need to get out of here before I make it an order. I'm glad you stayed as long as you did, though. It was helpful knowing we had coverage, in case something urgent came in."

"It's the least we could do, Cap," Munch replied. "Call us if you need us."

Not long after they'd left Cragen, Munch and Zelman were snugly in an unmarked Crown Victoria, surprised the power outages were spotty. Some traffic signals worked, but many were out and left drivers responding as if at a four-way stop. The occasional signal flashed red, making for risky navigation through almost every intersection.

Some lights were on in businesses along the avenue, others remained relegated to darkness with their red exit signs casting an eerie glow inside, thanks to backup batteries. John looked ahead, recognizing a brilliant green sign. "Sarah, look – Steak & Cake has lights on inside," Munch observed. "The power outages must be random. Want to stop in and have something? My offer to buy is still good."

She grinned, the thought of a warm meal and hot coffee making her feel better immediately. "Sure. You know me," she said, "I've never turned down a meal I wasn't paying for." She winked at John and he laughed, finally starting to relax a bit.

"I also know we've been running on next to nothing all day," he retorted, pulling into a metered parking space along the street.

"Too true. I could go for a hot turkey sandwich." Zelman fondly entertained the notion of turkey slices with gravy, coupled with mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. She slipped out of the passenger side and trotted alongside John, who held the door for her as she nodded her thanks.

Not all the lights were on inside, but it was bright enough to find a booth and peruse their menus. They sat in silence, both completely wiped out from their day, but grateful they'd have a decent meal at last.

"May I help you?" their server asked, breaking their reverie.

John had taken off his coat, his gold badge gleaming on the table. "We'd like some coffee, please, and my partner will have – "

The young woman saw his badge and remembered they were eligible for the standard law enforcement discount, graciously offered by most restaurants throughout the city.

"I'm sorry, but before you order, I should tell you our power's been out for a while," she explained. "The coffee might not be hot, the steam tables and the grill aren't back on yet, either. The grill went down right away, so all we know we've got are cold sandwiches and salads. Even the soup's probably cold now." She saw their expressions and hastened to add another apology.

"It's not your fault," Munch said quickly, understanding her predicament. "How about tea? Do you have some water hot enough to brew tea?"

"I think so… I'd offer to microwave it for you, but the mugs get hotter than the water," she said. "Let me go check on that. Two hot teas, if I can?" she asked.

He nodded and forced a relatively pleasant smile.

"Kill me now," Sarah insisted, her voice slightly above a whisper. "I knew we should have gone to the Piggly Wiggly and bought groceries." She shook her head, finally ready to give up or give in. "Crap."

"Neither of us had time to get the shopping done," John reminded her. Their usual routine was to have brunch together on Saturday morning, followed by grocery shopping and any miscellaneous errands. Last weekend had been filled with VICAP database searches, a trip to Rikers to question a skel, followed by a pile of paperwork that rivaled Mount Everest in its height and mass. Everyone had tackled the onslaught of work, leaving late and coming in early the next morning.

Their server returned with two mugs of water and the set-ups for tea. "The carafe was still warm, so I hope the water's hot enough."

"It should be fine," John said amiably. "I think we're ready to order now."

"Go ahead. Ladies first," she said with a genuine smile.

"I'll try a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a piece of chocolate satin pie," Sarah decided. She thought those would be the safest options, considering no one knew what the temperature of the food had been in the past hour.

"The pie is great, you'll love it," she said. "And what can I get for you, sir?"

"Could I get a provolone and onion sandwich on rye, with chips instead of coleslaw?" John asked.

"Sure. If they can, would you like the bread toasted?"

"Yes, please – and a piece of cherry pie." He closed his menu and put it back in its slot as she retreated to the kitchen to put their order in.

"Onion and provolone?" Sarah chided. "You're sleeping on the couch tonight," she said, shaking her head.

"I give you permission to drown me in Listerine, if you feel the need," he shot back, a smug grin on his handsome features. He bobbed the teabag in his mug, looking down disapprovingly. "Water wasn't hot enough after all. We're having pretend tea."

"I noticed that, too," Zelman commiserated. "Didn't want to say anything, however, since she's working at a disadvantage."

They took turns staring out the window, watching the blowing snow falling in huge wet flakes beneath the streetlights. Eventually, their food came and they ate wordlessly, both too exhausted to make trivial conversation after the events of their day.

"Damn!" John exclaimed, a red stain blooming on his gray tie.

Sarah's head snapped upward. "What? What's wrong?" She saw the red stain and her face fell. "Oh, no." A cherry had fallen from his fork, on to his tie and then to his slacks, leaving a telltale red splotch each place it made contact.

"I hate this day! Now I have to explain to the dry cleaners how I wrecked my suit," he groused. "This probably won't come out, either, just my rotten luck." Of course it had been the very last morsel of pie that did him in, too, which multiplied his ire considerably.

"They're miracle workers, John," Sarah reminded him, her voice softly reassuring. "You haven't 'wrecked' anything… They can get blood out of our clothes, so they can certainly get a few cherry spots out of wool gabardine."

"Correction: They usually get blood out of your clothes," he quipped. "The last time they had to get blood stains out of mine, I'd been shot in the ass. You, on the other hand, tend to collect more slugs than a – "

She'd finally been pushed too far. "Zip it, Munch!" Zelman snapped. "I'll even buy you a new suit if you'd…Just. Stop. Griping." They traded looks over the top of their lenses, wondering if the snarking would explode into a full-fledged argument. With a deep, calming breath, Sarah lowered her gaze first. "Sorry, John. I simply – "

"Don't apologize, babe," he said gently. "It was my fault. We've both had a truly deplorable Wednesday. Let's go back to my place and get some rest, shall we?"

"Sounds like a winner of an idea to me," she agreed, getting up to walk with him to the front counter.

He paid the check, left a tip that compensated for the NYPD discount and they once again bundled against the winter weather that awaited them.

They left the restaurant to discover their unmarked was trapped, surrounded by snow pushed aside by the city's plows. The only thing saving them from a parking ticket for being in an emergency snow removal zone was their blue bubble light, clearly visible on the front dash. Nevertheless, the sight of the mired car set John's temper ablaze, while Zelman could do nothing but watch, helpless against his wrath.

"Son of a bitch! Of all the nights for the plows to be on time, they do it now," Munch snapped. "Look at this! We'll either have to dig out or call for a tow." He slammed his gloved fist on the hood of the car and snow blew into the air. "Is this day going to end anytime soon?" He had the urge to kick something, but knew that with his luck it would be disastrous.

Sarah stood calmly, waiting for his anger to dissipate at least a little, before she opened her mouth and spoke. "If we can get into the trunk, there's an emergency shovel, an entrenching tool or something; there has to be. I'll dig the wheels out, then maybe we can get rolling again." She saw the look on his face and frowned, wondering what his solution would be instead. "Otherwise, we call Freddy at the Precinct's garage and see if he can slog through this mess and tow us out."

"We'll give your idea a try," John decided. "I'm not sure I could take the humiliation of calling for help right now. Besides, he's probably busy with RMP cars. We can't be the only ones dealing with this mess." He gestured widely, then swore again under his breath.

"Pop the trunk and hand me the shovel," Sarah said, ready to dig. The sooner they started, the quicker they'd make it home.

Munch opened the trunk and found the shovel, taking a quick survey of what else was in their emergency kit. "Sarah, I should be the one doing this, not you," he asserted. "Get in." He nodded toward the driver's door, slightly irked his chivalry seemed to be wasted on her at the moment.

"John, I could dig us out," she replied, careful of her tone.

"Humor me," he insisted. "It's cold, it's dark, it's snowing and I'd rather you were inside the car, out of this. Go ahead, get in." He gave her a look that forbade comment, satisfied only when she pulled open the door and took her place behind the steering wheel.

He extended the handle on the shovel and secured it, wishing the snow would stop if even for five lousy minutes. Shoveling snow while the freezing wet flakes stormed down wasn't his idea of fun. Munch walked to the front of the car, checked for traffic – found none – and began to dig away the packed snow.

By the time he started to excavate beneath the back bumper, he was sweating, irritated and wondering if the snow would ever stop. "Try to move forward!" he yelled, hearing Zelman start the car. He could hear she had dropped down into first gear, as she slowly eased on the accelerator. Working in tandem, the two of them managed to almost rock the car over six inches of ice-like snow-pack acting as chocks in front of the rear wheels. "Hit it!" John yelled, shoving hard against the trunk lid as she gave it more gas.

Without warning, the car lurched forward, tires spinning as Sarah cleared the packed snow. Inadvertently, as the tires spun, she'd created the perfect fountain of frozen precipitation, which completely soaked John. Absolutely livid, he got in without so much as a word, glaring while she drove in silence to his place. She knew not to apologize, because she did exactly what he had told her; to be contrite would have added gasoline to a bonfire.

The end result wasn't her fault, yet she felt awful and quietly vowed to make it up to him. At least the snow had still been clean, crisp and white. If Munch had been sprayed in filthy sludge, he'd be driving right now and she'd probably be waiting for a bus – or walking home.

She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. After the hell they'd been through over the past fifteen hours, there was nothing left to say.

When they entered his apartment, they stood for a moment in disbelief. It was warm. A check of the thermostat confirmed it: a perfect eighty degrees.

John wasted no time taking off his coat, hat and gloves, as Sarah took off her coat. She spread his out across the couch, hoping the wool blend would dry overnight. He silently walked back to the bathroom, leaving a trail of damp clothes in his wake. She picked up his clothes, shook out his suit and left it to dry as she dropped everything else but his tie into the hamper.

She thought a moment before stripping off her own clothes and getting into the shower with him. Wordlessly, she took the soap and scrubbed his back, afterward trying to massage some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. "I'm sorry… Okay?" she asked softly. "I didn't mean for you to almost freeze to death out there."

He turned to face her, momentarily hogging the hot water as it pounded the back of his neck. "I know you didn't," he said morosely. "That isn't what's on my mind right now." He turned toward the spray and scrubbed his face, allowing the water to wash away the chill.

"If that's not it, then what's wrong?" she asked, a bit confused. If it had been her, she would have been pissed as hell over getting hit with her own personal blizzard. But that wasn't it…and now he'd fallen silent once more, deliberately not answering her.

She got out, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her, holding one for him as he stepped from the shower. While he toweled off, she brought in his scrubs, having first slipped into her flannel pajamas. "Want me to make you some tea?" she asked, hopeful he was finally starting to relax.

"Thanks, but I'm ready to go straight to bed," he replied.

She followed him into the bedroom, sliding into bed next to him. "John, I won't be able to sleep unless you tell me what's wrong." The last thing she wanted was an argument, but if they didn't clear the air, she wouldn't fall asleep for hours.

"I…it's that… I'd wanted to do at least something for you, since it's Valentine's Day," he admitted sullenly. "Unfortunately everything went to hell," he added, absolutely wiped out. "And now, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is – "

"Sweetheart, don't worry about it. We survived the day, that's all that matters," she said wearily. "It's time we got some sleep." They were finally warm, dry and together. She turned off the light on the nightstand and looked forward to a few quiet hours of rest.

"There's always this weekend," he offered, reaching for her.

"I have plans already," she said tiredly, draping her arm over him and moving closer.

"You what? Where and with whom?" he demanded, too exhausted to be fully irked.

"My place. Eight o'clock Saturday night," she replied. "You'd better not be so much as one minute late." With that, she closed her eyes, effortlessly falling asleep by his side.

It was a maddening two and half days for John Munch, because Sarah Zelman had not so much as given him a clue to what was in store for him that night.

He had no idea if they were going out, staying in, or what would happen. Dressing in a dark suit with a red tie, packing his work carry in case they were out late, he picked up a pink and white-wrapped package from the table and walked the two blocks to Sarah's building.

Curiosity nagged him as he debated whether to let himself in or knock on her apartment door. It was 7:59. He was about to knock when she opened the door. "I take it I'm not too late?" he asked, a smile on his face.

"You're punctual as always," she replied, opening the door wide. She was dressed to go out, but hadn't yet put on her black satin pumps. Her black sequined dress dipped low and glimmered in the candlelight. "Come in and get comfortable," she said, sharing a Sphinx-like smile. She never tired of seeing him in a suit, like a sensuous package waiting to be unwrapped at her leisure.

"Are we going out?" he asked, accepting a glass of champagne. "You made reservations at Jersey's Jazz Joynt, didn't you?" He handed her the package. "A little something for you, by the way. Hope you like it."

"Something for you, too – I have a feeling you won't want to leave, once you open it," she said, clinking her glass against his.

"L'chayim," they said softly, as was their custom. Boz Scaggs' smooth jazz played low and sultry in the background, giving John the urge to embrace her and dance. They didn't need an evening at an expensive nightclub to have a good time, as long as they had each other.

He put his glass down and wrapped his arms around her. "Tell me where we're going," he whispered, the two swaying effortlessly to the music. "You've had me in suspense forever. Don't force me to interrogate you," he said, laughing softly.

"You can interrogate me any time you want, Detective, as long as you bring your handcuffs," she replied seductively, hearing his musical laugh in response.

"You still haven't answered my question," he reminded her.

"We're not going anywhere. We're already there," she replied. She loosened his tie and kissed him softly, still in time with the music. "Want to open your present?"

"Does it compare to this?" he asked, her head on his shoulder.

"I'll let you decide," she replied, gently pulling away from him. "Good things come in small packages." She held out what looked to be a CD, wrapped in red with a bow.

He handed her the gift he'd brought. "You get to open yours now, too." John pulled the wrapping off and gazed curiously at what turned out to be a DVD. He saw a simple inscription on the case: 'Abraham Zapruder – Raw Footage' and the date of JFK's assassination. "Sarah, what did you do?" he breathed, incredulous.

"Your cousin Andy isn't the only one who has friends in low places," she said with a wry grin. "One of my fellow 'spooks' was able to copy the _unedited_ film from Zapruder, burn it to a DVD and sneak it to me. Now it's yours." She started to tear the wrapping from her gift, her gaze still on his face. "I had it recorded so you could watch it frame-by-frame. Like it?"

"Are you kidding? I don't know what to say… A simple 'thank you' doesn't begin to do it justice." He looked at the DVD as if he'd just been handed the Rosetta Stone. "Can we watch it tonight?" he asked hopefully.

"That was my evil plan," she quipped, getting the box opened at last. "Oh my god… John! How did you – wow." Sarah held up a bustier and panties in royal blue slipper satin with lace trim. "Victoria's Secret. I didn't think men actually ordered from those catalogs. Don't guys just keep them around for the pictures?" She ran her finger over the satin and lace, an appreciative blush pinking her complexion.

"Some of us know the photos can't compare to the real thing," he said, a satisfied smile on his face. "I knew you'd seen that, last time we walked by their display windows. There's something else, too. Close your eyes." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small trinket, slightly heavy for its size. "Open."

She stared down at a square metal box, three by three inches. She popped open the clasp on the front and gasped. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?" The treasure inside was small, genuine gold and shimmered beautifully in the low light. "You've really done it this time, sweetheart," she said gratefully. "It's so…cute!"

It was a Glock key ring, rendered in gold plate, a flawlessly tiny version of her service weapon inside a perfect replica of a Glock gun case. She'd wanted one for months, but each time she tried to get one for herself, the local dealer insisted they were hopelessly out of stock. She realized she'd been buffaloed, since the dealer was a good friend of John's. "Leave it to you to always give me what I crave," she said. "This is wonderful!"

"Other women want diamonds, babe, but not you," he said admiringly. "Of course, only you would think a Glock was 'cute,'" he added, relishing her reaction to the gift.

She grinned, pulling him into a long kiss. Finally, she gestured toward the couch and John nodded. The night was young; the evening was rife with conspiracy, and the JFK assassination footage beckoned to them both.

Late the next morning, they awoke in a jumble, as if a tornado had swept through the bedroom leaving a sequined dress, a suit coat, slacks, shirt, tie, shoes, socks, pajamas, lacy black and royal blue lingerie, and a large comforter in its wake. John moved his right arm and realized he was almost tangled in Sarah, which brought a lazy Sunday smile to his face. "Last night was absolutely incredible," he whispered into her ear, carefully extricating himself.

He heard two dull clanks as metal slipped from the edge of the bed and hit the floor – their handcuffs. They looked at each other and laughed softly, both their faces reddening simultaneously. "Good thing those handcuffs can't talk," he said, arching his brows.

"That's for sure," she agreed. "I think we had honeymoon sex, without the pesky legal entrapments of marriage," she agreed, sitting up and smoothing her hair. "Didn't know the Zapruder film was such a powerful aphrodisiac," she said, only half-joking. She nudged him and he retrieved the comforter, tucking it around her. "Want me to make us some tea?" Sarah hoped he'd want to make it instead, while she changed into a sleep shirt.

"I will," John replied, pulling on his scrubs. "If I have the energy," he said, surveying the whirlwind of discarded clothing around the room. He trudged into the kitchen and turned on the light. He put a fresh filter in the coffeemaker and stacked in six Earl Gray teabags, filled the water reservoir and pressed the start button.

As tea brewed and he heard the shower start, Munch's gaze settled on a gaudily wrapped box with a red envelope propped against it. He opened the envelope and pulled out the card, grinning at Sarah's decidedly risqué references to his superior physical prowess. He cast a glance toward the bedroom, then tore the gift-wrap, opening the box.

He laughed, shaking his head, delighted she'd remembered. When she had time to purchase it was a mystery, but she'd somehow shaken him off long enough to do so.

It was a brand-new NYPD mug.


End file.
